Gilbert Grissom's: A Christmas Story
by sweet-surrender5
Summary: A parody sort of of Ralphie's A Christmas Story. A young Grissom is in place of Ralphie Parker and he's going to get what he wants for Christmas! WIP, will hopefully add some GSR in the end!
1. Chapter 1

a/n: Okay, I know it's a little late! But who says the Christmas season ends on the 25th? Not me, certianly. Anyway, I was watching the 24 hour show of Ralphie's "A Christmas Story" (not all 24 hours of it, mind you!) and I decided to put a little bit of my own twist on it. Oh, and this is my first non-GSR centred fic, so be gentle! Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or Ralphie...but I live sort of near where they filmed it!

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**Gilbert Grissom's: A Christmas Story  
****

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**

It was 1964 and I was eight years old. It was almost Christmas in Marina Del Rey, and although there was no snow (of course, being in California) the people along Bowman Lane had decorated their houses with traditional twinkle lights, and some even had those cheap plastic light-up snowmen in their gardens. I always thought it was kind of pointless and superficial-looking.

Why on earth put a snowman on your lawn when there was no _real _snow anyway?

I left for school early on the 12th of December, looking up and down to see who of my neighbors had spent the most on decorations. As I passed 239, the Henry's place, I saw that they even had their palm tree decorated with ornaments. Looking across the street, I saw that the McCormack's had decorated their palm tree _and _set out little reindeer made of driftwood.

Talk about 'keeping up with the Joneses'.

My mother hadn't decorated at all. I thought that was a little odd, seeing as she was the curator of an art gallery. You would think she'd have at least a little bit of a creative spark…But we hadn't decorated since they'd gotten a divorce, her and my Old Man. They divorced when I was five.

And I wasn't yet big enough at the ripe old age of nine to put the lights up on the roof, so the exterior of our house went undecorated, without austere -- except for the small wreath on the door that I'd made in art class out of palm leaves and adorned with sand dollars and sea glass.

I was a little disappointed that my house was the only one on Bowman Lane that wasn't decorated. But then again, I was used to being set apart. It seemed nothing in my life was like the average American kid's. I was I was trying to remember what my house looked like decorated, when the Old Man had lived with us, when I heard a shout from behind me.

"If it isn't little Grisly Grissom!"

I cringed at the sound. I would know that garish voice anywhere; Richard Samuels. The meanest, ugliest, heartless fiend you would ever come across, I'm sure of it. He was twelve, which meant that he could pick on me, a lowly grade four.

I kept walking, increasing my pace. But the flap of the kid's loafer's followed me ominously, sounding much to my nine-year-old ears like a bear's padded feet would sound to a diminutive mouse.

"I'm talkin' to you, Barf-wad!" I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I was yanked around to look into the yellow irises of my tormenter. Yes, they were yellow. Have you ever seen someone with yellow eyes? You better hope to God you never see a person with yellow eyes; they flash at you with an evil sneer, trapping you, paralyzing you until you go crazy.

"Barf-wad?" I asked, hugging my arithmetic book to my chest, "What kind of insult is that? If you're gonna call me something, at least call me something good."

Richard (known to most of the kids at St. Lucia's as 'Rick the Stick' because of his height) made a face at me, sticking out his tongue. What an ostentatious comeback. I mean, _really._

I made the dreadful mistake of rolling my own blue eyes and immediately regretted it. A tip for handling bullies; say what you want to them, as long as you know they won't understand it. But never, ever, do something as simple as rolling your eyes in defiance. After all, a bully's master craft is violence, and if your mother has a disposition to ground you for getting beat up…Just be careful.

Anyway, he punched me on the shoulder. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough that I would be able see the imprints of his bony knuckles on my skin if I had checked. I gritted my teeth in insolence and turned to walk away.

"Hey, I'm not done with you, you little smart-ass."

My eyebrows shot up at the insult. Now _that _was a proper insult! Maybe he wasn't as dim-witted as I thought.

Indeed, though, I was the kinda kid people would pick on. I was quite little – my major growth spurt came around my eleventh birthday, when my now broad form would start to take shape. But before that, I was a runt. My California sun-kissed brown hair was almost blonde, and the only feature that set me apart from the other kids was my blue, blue eyes. I had my Old Man's eyes. My mother used to say that we had eyes like Zeus.

I remember the many nights I'd stayed up in bed, thinking about how marvelous it would be to rule from the heavens, using my lightening bolts whenever I felt. But outside of my childhood fantasies, I was just some runty kid that got picked on. My only defense was my words and my cunning.

"Hi, Mrs. Samuels!" I called, looking over his shoulder and waving excitedly. Richard whipped around, looking up and down the street to see where his mother was. I smiled. My clever diversion had worked!

By the time he realized that his mother wasn't actually there, I was likely halfway to school.

* * *

Believe it or not, I wasn't the greatest academic in my early grade school years. I understood everything, but getting it down on paper or out of my mouth was hard. I had terrible, terrible handwriting, and I was a quiet kid. Never really liked to talk that much. I was perfectly happy just to sit and absorb. 

I loved science class. My father was a botanist. A scientist with a great mind, someone who was well known in his field. Ian Grissom was my idol. I wanted to be a great scientist, just like him. So in science class, I'd sit with my eyes glued to the teacher...either that or the textbook. Or even one of the many books I owned about biology and weather, and why things work.

I was sitting in class that day, listening to Mrs. Firkin drone on about red dwarf stars (what a snore) and browsing through the latest issue of National Geographic (cleverly taken from the next door neighbor's garbage. The previous owner of the house had a subscription and had subsequently forgotten to change the subscription address) when a leaflet fell out of the magazine and landed on my lap.

It was an advertisement for a Chemlab set. It was a new edition, not like the crumby old ones that Mrs. Firkin locked in the back of our class. Not that we were ever allowed to use them anyway. The Chemlab sets were for grade six and up. I shook my head, thinking that this was a stupid rule.

How come doofuses like Richard Samuels got to use them and perfectly capable and intelligent young scientists like myself did not?

Oh come on, where's the justice in that?!

I was pondering this when I noticed Suzy Lipsitz in the row across from me. She was swinging her nylon-clad legs happily, which caught my attention – who is that happy when listening to a monotone voice like Mrs. Firkin's? Then I saw the piece of paper that she was so intently writing away on.

"Dear Santa…"

I read, looking at the giant red letters at the top of her page.

That was it! I'd get my own! And with Christmas coming…well it was near perfect timing! As I looked at the Chemlab with wide eyes, a master plan began to form deep in my brain, like a seed waiting to burst forth. It was perfect -- brand new beakers, test tubes, tweezers, gloves, goggles, and even a scalpel! And the crowning glory of all scientific tools known to me;

A pair of safety goggles, complete with their own magnifying lens built right in! No need to hold a heavy one anymore while trying to investigate! All you needed to do was look in the little magnified circle by the corner!

Boy, would this be interesting to use on that seagull I found on the beach the other day…And how better to get one of my own then to ask my mother for it for Christmas!

"Genius!" I exclaimed happily to myself.

"Excuse me, Gilbert?" Mrs. Firkin said, turning from her star chart to look at me threateningly over the tops of her half-moon spectacles. I cringed; unsure of the reason…was it the use of my dreaded 'Sunday-name', or was it the large mole on her chin?

"Uhh…I mean..." I stammered.

"Was that the answer I heard?" She asked. Damn, I was trapped.

"No, ma'am," I said, looking down at my desk.

"Well Gil, I suppose you just won't get to see a red dwarf when we do our solar system field trip tomorrow night because you don't know what one is!" Mrs. Firkin exclaimed. I could hear the contentment in her voice and I knew that I couldn't let her have it over me. Once I did, she'd never let it go. Teachers are like that.

"Now that we're all playing atten--"

"Actually it's unlikely that any of us will see a red dwarf, Mrs. Firkin. They use the fusion of elements such as hydrogen and helium and have a low core temperature. So they don't give off much light. So I _would _be able to identify a red dwarf if there was a chance that I would be able to see one," I said, never moving my eyes from hers.

A few kids began to titter and laugh and I could tell she was embarrassed. Ah, the joys of being an elementary school kid; it's not every day you get the satisfaction of embarrassing a teacher.

"Detention after school, Mr. Grissom."

…and then there was that slight problem. They had power. I hate power.

* * *

I stalked down the stairs of St. Lucia Catholic Elementary at 3:30pm, still red faced at the indignation of having to stay after school for a whole fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes! How _dare _she. All I did was correct her…after all, _she _was the one at fault and _she_ was the one who had misled the class. 

I jumped at the sound of a car horn and I looked up to see a baby blue Mercedes sitting beside the curb. It was a classic model, complete with leather interior and a drop top. It had been waxed, shined, and polished to the maximum, obviously the object of someone's pride and joy.

"Dad!"

I ran up to the car, my giant backpack hitting the backs of my legs and threatening to throw me off balance. But I managed to get to the car without falling and open the door, clambering in next to my Old Man.

"Hey, son. Where ya been?" He asked in the deep, smooth baritone that I would grow to inherit.

"Uhh…had to do some stuff for the teacher," I lied, not wanting to tarnish my near-perfect record just before Christmas. Detentions were bad news back in those days. Yep, back when I was in school, you spelled 'detention' B-E-L-T. And no one wants to spend a few days walking around with a tanned hide, especially for the holidays.

My Old Man nodded and started to drive. I remember the car smelt of vanilla and pipe tobacco. My Old Man loved his pipe. A traditional kind of guy, you could say. A Cadillac, pipe-smoking, Frank Sinatra-loving, baseball fan, kind of fella.

"So what did you learn at school today, Gilly-boy?"

"Quantum physics."

We both burst out laughing, his deep, mellow tone almost harmonizing with my own higher, child-like one. It was a joke we often shared on the Thursdays he picked me up from school. I'd first said it in Grade 2. Oh boy, you shoulda seen him that day. He laughed so hard he had to pull over into Doris May's Restaurant parking-lot. Ever since then it kinda became out little father-son joke.

"So, son. What would you like for Christmas this year? Have you asked your mother for anything?" He asked me.

"Umm…well I was thinking about getting a Cubs shirt…you know, like Larry Jackson's?"

"Atta-boy!" My father laughed, clapping me on the shoulder with a large, rough hand. One day, my hands would be that big too. "Anything else you wanted?"

It blurted out before I could stop it.

"I want a Chemlab 2000 Edition with a scalpel and tweezers and the goggles that come with the magnifying lens right in them!" I said rapidly, and once I'd realized my mistake: "Oooh."

"A scalpel kit?" my father said. He Greek god eyes clouded and I could tell that his happy disposition was fading fast.

"But you can't use that Chemlab kit on plants, boy," he said as he slipped his pipe between his teeth, slurring his words. I knew that he wanted me to follow in his footsteps and be a revered botanist. But I knew that my calling was anatomical biology. I liked to figure out how animals and people and bugs worked. Plants were just…boring. All they did was sit there.

"Oh."

I left it at that. My plan had barely started and I'd already screwed it up. But there were many tactics left, and I'd just have to be cleverer. It was time to outsmart the game.

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a/n: Merry Belated Christmas! Don't forget to review! 


	2. Chapter 2

a/n: Gah, I think alerts are down again. Anyway, here's chapter 2. Enjoy!

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Chapter Two

That night, I lay in my bed (at my mother's of course; I only stayed with my Old Man on long weekends and holidays) and concocted my master plan. My quilt thrown over my head, I used my trusty flashlight to light the page of my little red notebook. Ahh, the many nights I'd spent like that. My flashlight and my notebook were my best friends.

So that night I made my list. First on the docket: getting into my Old Man's good books. After all, once he found out I was going to be a great pathologist one day; he'd be disappointed that I didn't want to be a botanist. Might as well soften the blow. Second: planting my Christmas wish into my mother's head.

I was confident in this second one. It would be easier to let my mother know what I wanted in a more…_subtle_…way than how I'd done with my father. When signing, it's hard to blurt things out. My mother was deaf, so it often took a little longer when communicating. Which was good for me. More time to think. I was definitely a thinker.

Third: making sure that no matter what, I would not give up. No matter how hard I had to work for it, I was getting this Chemlab. This Christmas gift was my future. How can you deny a kid a future?

Ooh, that was a good line. I wrote it down in the margin, just incase I needed it in argument's sake. You never knew with my mother. She liked to figure out the pros on cons of _everything _before she made a final decision. And that's what made her tricky.

A long yawn escaped my lips and I realized that it was way past my bedtime. I'd need all my energy from now on to put my plan into action. Tomorrow, I would make my first successful move.

That morning at breakfast, I slyly eyed up my mother over the Weetabix. She was a tall woman with striking green eyes and a brunette perm. Her skin was always flawless, although a smile was rare. I'd have to approach this carefully. Hm, but how to bring it up…I caught her eye and smiled,

'_Do you think we will go to Venice this Christmas?' _I signed. I knew we weren't, but it was a conversation started at least. My mother was the curator of an art museum in Italy, and she'd go quite frequently and I'd stay with my father. I had accompanied her twice then, and I liked Italy. It was like a world of its own. But I mentally kicked myself as my mind drifted towards the thoughts of homemade panini and calzone.

'_Not this year. I would like to stay here for Christmas,' _my mother signed back. She hated it when I signed at the table because she was always having t put down her spoon. But then again I could tell she felt bad because I would just sit in silence if I didn't communicate with her.

'_What are we doing, then?'_

'_We are staying here of course. Your father is going to drop by for half an hour on Christmas Eve to give you your present,' _

Yesss. Fallen straight into the Devil's Lair. She'd brought up the subject of presents. Ha. My plan was in progress!

'_Oh really,' _I signed, trying to keep the smile from my face, _'Do you know what he got me?'_

My mother gave me her 'look'. The one that said '_Gil, I know you're smarter than this!'_ And she was always damn right, too.

'_No, Gil, I don't know. Why don't you ask him when you see him next? He wants you to watch the baseball game with him on Sunday.' _

Ahh, my mother was conversational putty in my hands and I was molding it into and exact replica of something that I'd envisioned in my head. Only DaVinci was capable of such works, yet here I was a grand master of the potter's wheel at age eight.

'_Oh, I did. He said he already bought it, but he wanted to get me the Chemlab 2000. But he couldn't take back what he already bought…' _I knew I was lying, but as long as no one found out, what was the harm? A little white lie never killed anyone. (At least not that I knew of yet.)

I waited, staring at my mother, almost trembling with the anticipation of her answer.

"A chemistry kit?" she asked, her voice slurred because she couldn't hear her own words. Her face was twisted in an unhappy expression. Wrong reaction, wrong reaction!!

"You'll blow up the house."

Oh no. Not that. That was they typical mother reaction, I should have known. I should have seen it coming, predicted it. Where had my data trends been last night when I formulated my plan? Where?!

My mother had gone back to eating her cereal, and I knew that this subject was off limits for the time being. Conversation dead. Mother; 1, kid; 0. Damnit. I bit my lip and shook my head in disappointment. How had I not seen that coming?

With a weight on my little shoulders, I headed off to school in hopes of stumbling across the missing element of my plan. 'You learn something new every day,' my Old Man used to say. Hopefully I would learn something useful.

* * *

"Well class, as you all know, Christmas is coming soon!" Mrs. Firkin said. What was the first exclamation I'd ever heard her express. The rest of my peers beamed at her and she stood up out of her chair.

"…And you know what that means, right?"

The class burst into one simultaneous yell (except for me),

"SANTA'S COMING!"

I rolled my eyes, tapping my favorite T-rex pencil against the wood top of my minuscule desk. I wasn't sure at that age, what to believe about the fabled 'Santa Claus'…Jolly Old St. Nick, Père Noël, the Big Guy. Logic told me that it was a phony excuse to make kids be good. But another part of me wanted to get lost in the magic of it all. Mostly I tried to avoid thinking about it at all.

"And so, I would like you to all get out your books, boys and girls. We are going to write a composition," Mrs. Firkin was saying. Oh, I knew how she loved to see the excited faces of little boys and girls thinking about Santa droop at the prospect of a boring task such as a composition. I was sure she did it on purpose. But when she pulled up the map of the States and I saw what was written on the board. My face must have stuck out like a screwdriver on an MRI, because I burst into a smile.

"_What I want for Christmas" _

Aha! Eurika! Oh, this was heaven sent. Someone upstairs was lookin' out for me, I could tell. I would write the best composition ever, and Mrs. Firkin would give me an A+. Then of course I'd show it to my mother and she'd be suckered into buying me that Chemlab for my Pulitzer Prize-winning writing abilities! Ha!

Right away, I started on my task, a pink sliver of my tongue sticking out of my lips in concentration. Boy was I gonna get a million percent on this! (Not that a million percent is logically possible, but heck, I was excited.)

The bell rang and I was still working away at my wonderful, wonderful masterpiece. I quickly wrote my ingenious concluding statement and ran to the teacher's desk to hand in. Giving her an exaggerated wink in case she missed it, I scampered away, hoping to make it home before Richard Samuels got out of Detention Hall.

* * *

I took a walk on the beach just before dinner. I counted three dead seagulls, a jellyfish, two crabs and four washed up fish. I wondered how they died. Hey, call me morbid but it interested me. How did these animals end up here? I wanted to know how that one little guppy was missing part of its tail. I wanted to know if that little minnow I could see inside the jellyfish was in its stomach.

With the Chemlab, I would find out. I'd use my library card to get all the books I needed and then perform all my own autopsies and maybe even one day become famous for my findings.

Gilbert Grissom, the greatest mind there ever was.

I saw my mother wave her kitchen towel out of the back door and I knew it was time for dinner. So with a little laugh, I ran down the beach as fast as my little feet would carry me, splashing water up behind me.

Ah, the joys of being a kid.

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a/n: Thanks for reading! 


	3. Chapter 3

a/n: Chapter Three!! Hopefully I can get chapter four up tomorrow morning.

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Chapter Three

I figured I'd lay low for a while and reconstruct my genius plan. The composition was handed in and a sure-fire weapon. All I had to do was wait to get it back. As for my mother, I was waiting for the perfect moment to strike and catch her into another one of my intricate webs of conversation. Oh, yes, I would win this time. But I had things to do first.

I snuck into my mother's bedroom early Monday morning when she was in the bathroom and slipped the leaflet for the Chemlab 2000 into her copy of 'Life' magazine. She'd find herself caught reading the leaflet as she read her regular "Dear Abbey" article and she'd be entrapped in it's clever sales pitch! This was sure to work.

I practically skipped off to school, happy that things were finally swinging my way. And hopefully I'd get my prize-wining composition back today. My A+. My key weapon to getting my ulimate Christmas gift. Ohh yes, things were looking up. Wayy up. I even managed to avoid Rick the Stick on the way to school that morning. I took a shortcut through the Finson's yard and ran along the beach to school. I didn't usually do that because I knew I'd get distracted. But that morning the prospect of getting my composition was a even stronger distraction and the hermit crab on the driftwood went uninvestigated.

I was in my seat three minutes before the bell, patiently waiting. Yep, oh boy, this was it. I could hardly contain my excitement. I was surprised Mrs. Firkin hadn't asked me if she could read it to the Teacher's Lounge yet! Oh well, maybe she wanted to give me the grade first. Let me know. Yeah, that was it.

The bell rang and kids filed in, pushing and shoving. I metally told them to shut up and sit down, wanting to get our assignments back faster. Come on, come on...I begged, impatiently doodling a ladybug on my red notebook. It looked more like a puddle of goo decorated with blueberries. I didn't care.

"Well class, I was impressed overall by your compositions..." Mrs. Firkin said, hanidn each row their papers, "I was a little disappointed, however, with the margins..."

Who cares!? Gimme my composition!!

I grabbed the paper from Timmy and threw the rest back over my shoulder at Lynn. This was it! This was the big moment. Drumroll, please...

DRRRRRRR...

And the big grade is...

C+?

A C+? Oh man, this must have been a mistake. I looked at the top of the page, making sure it said my name and not Timmy's. The boy was a little thick. But there it was, staring at me in familiar shaky cursive. "Gilbert Grissom" .

Son of a bitch.

She'd given me a C+. My eyes widened as I saw a note written in thick red pen at the bottom of the page.

_**"P.S. You'll blow up the house."**_

Oh no. Oh no no no. Mother must have gotten to her! Nooo! Damn woman alliances! Female mind bonding, something I'd never grow to understand. The words floated around in my head in mocking sing-song;

You'll blow up the hou-use, you'll blow up the hou-use!!

Ahh piss. I shoved my hopes into my bag and opened the red notebook, crossing off #4 on my list: the composition. Ah well, there was still other aspects to be worked on. I could still win before Christmas morning, oh I could. And I would.

* * *

Rick the Stick was waiting for me after school. As if my life could get worse! I tried not to make eye contact, but he grabbed the strp of my XL backpack and yanked me towards him. 

"Hello, dweeb-face. What's hanging? Hm, maybe your guts in a second..." he said menacingly. I just stared at him, tryignt o keep my face neutral. They can smell fear, I swear it.

"You up for a little walk, pal?" he said in my face. His breath smelled bad.

"Sorry, I don't associate with people who have severe hallitosis."

"Helli-what?" He punched my shoulder and this time it hurt.

"Hey!" my voice squeaked, my hand reflexively going to the sore spot. Rick just laughed and lifted me up by my backpack straps, my loafer-clad feet dangling above the pavement. I hated being puny.

"Don't just make up words, dirt-bag," he said, and pushed me against the bike racks. I struggled and he just laughed harder.

"Stop it, Richard!" I yelled as loud as my little lungs would let me. He stopped for a second and then stared at me. The, he started laughing and I had no idea why. Why was he laughing at me? What did I do??

"Sthop it, Rit-thard!" he said, amidst his fits of laughter. It was then that I realized that he was imitaiting me. My accent and my cadence. It had happened again...

Since my mother was deaf, I had a heard time learning to speak. Phonics had proven to be a big challenge because I did not know what certain sounds were supposed to sound like. My mother had sent me to a speech therapist and I became articulate and careful with my words. But when I got worked up, sometimes I woudl forget and slur my words like my mother did. And I had just done that.

Tears filled my smoky blue eyes and I was filled with rage. Kids can be so cruel.

"Whassa matter, kid? Mommy never teach ya howta speak?"

That was it.

With a battle cry you would ahve never expected from a kid my size, I kicked Rick the Stick between the legs. right where the sun don't shine. He immediately let me go and reached for his goods. I landed on the ground at the same time he crumpled and my leather loafers connected with his ribs.

"Stupid, ugly, yella'-bellied, no good, dirty-rotten..."

I spewed a string of obscenities as I hit him over and over with my feet. Never before had a kid my age said anything like I said that day. I wove a tapestry of curses that, as far as we know, is hanging in the atmosphere somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico. Somewhere along the line, I had taken off my bag and started swinging it at his prone form on the pavement.

"...shit-eating, double dog licking, pole-humping, fat-ass..."

Kids had seen what was going on and began to crowd around. They chanted _'fight, fight, fight' _over and over again. I just kept at it until I felt two hands roughly pull me backwards. I looked back over my shoulder, still swinign my arms, to see my mother's bright green eyes staring into mine.

Suddenly all the rage left me and there as nothing left but tears. They poured down my face and she dusted off my clothes, putting an arm around my shoulder, and whispered 'shhh' in my ear. Together, we walked home like that, leaving the kids to stare.

* * *

I knew this wasn't gonna turn out good at all the moment I got home. My mother held my head over the sink and put a wet cloth to my neck. I was still sobbing, then it suddenly hit me;

She would tell my Old Man.

Ohh, boy. I could hear the cold, harsh snap of his leather belt already. I could feel it's head on my buttocks. Fear gripped my heart and then dread sunk in that I wouldn't be getting my Chemlab 2000 for Christmas. That just made me cry harder. She tried to soothe me, but it didn't work and eventually she just sent me to bed.

I wasn't even in the mood to read. All I could do was sit there and stare at the ceiling. Now _that _was saying something. I was always reading. But I just couldn't focus enough to this time. I heard the doorbell ring and I knew that my dad was here. My mother must have called him. Usually when she needs to call him she ring his number three times and he knows its something important and has to come around. This wasn't good. I felt sick. Oh boy, I felt sick.

I crawled out of bed and went to the top of the stairs to peek at what was going on. My mother was signing to my father and he was nodding. But what was she signing? I couldn't see because a bannister was in teh way, so I had to lean out a little.

'Are you coming here on Christmas Eve?' She signed. My Old Man nodded and asked her what time he should come at, and she read his lips.

What was going on? Wasn't she telling him about my fight? Why?

The conversation about Christmas lasted for a few moments and then my Old Man picked up his backpack off the floor. I suddenly remembered that I'd borrowed it. He'd probab;y onlt come back to get it. Mum hadn't called him after all!

"So what are you getting Gil for Christmas?" My Old Man asked. My mother held up ehr ahdns to sign and my heart lept with joy. What was she about to say? Was it a Chemlab? Was it? WAS IT??

"Gahhhh!!"

They both looked in time to see me fall down the stairs headfirst. I'd let go of the bannister in my excitement. And simultaneously earned myself my first scar. And, unfortuantely, consiquentially lost my chance of hearing what I was going to get for Christmas.

* * *


End file.
